Midnight Rider (7 page)

A ripple of guilt washed over him. She was so small. And as fearless as she seemed, he knew she must be frightened. Then he thought of Andreas, cold and blue beneath the blanket around his lifeless corpse, and the unwanted feeling slid away.

He untied his woven leather
reata
from his saddle, formed a loop, and settled it around her small bound wrists. He tied the other end to his wide, flat saddle horn, all the while waiting for her to beg and plead, to cry and beseech him for mercy, knowing that it would not dissuade him. Still he wanted to hear it. He would enjoy each groveling moment only the least bit more if the speaker were her uncle.

He thought of Fletcher Austin, of Rancho del Robles, of his family's stolen lands, and his brother's brutal murder. He thought of Caralee McConnell, the eastern sophisticate who considered herself above them, who thought only of money and her own self-indulgence, and his anger grew more fierce, settling like a hot stone in his belly.

“There is quite some distance to travel, senorita,” he said, glancing down at her. “It is time we were on our way.” He tugged on the rope, expecting to see tears, but she only lifted her chin. Eyes like green fire scorched down his body, blatantly speaking her loathing.

He clamped down hard on his temper and nudged the stallion into a walk, ruthlessly dragging her forward. She swung into line ten feet behind the horse and started up the trail. They made their way through the small secluded valley then began to climb higher into the hills. All the while, the rope remained slack, the girl easily keeping pace with the horse.

Four hours later, she was still walking, still glaring at his back with hot, hate-filled eyes. He could almost feel them boring into him.

Occasionally he turned, unable to resist the challenge, amazed at the fact that she had not begged him to stop, or even once complained. They paused only briefly, at a stream where they watered the horses and ate a handful of
carne seca,
spicy jerked beef. When the girl refused the portion Sanchez offered, Ramon dismounted and walked to where she stood at the end of her tether.

“You will do as Pedro says.” He handed her the jerky, a cold smile curving his lips. “I would not want it said we were inhospitable to a guest.”

She tossed the dried beef into the dust at his feet. “I'm not hungry. And even if I were, I wouldn't eat with an animal like you.”

A hot jolt of anger speared through him. He caught her arms and dragged her up on her toes. “You will not waste food while you are among us. There are those who die each day for want of what you have discarded. But you would not know of such things, would you, senorita?”

She merely raised her chin. “Why would I?”

He flashed her a ruthless half smile. “Perhaps in time you will learn to appreciate the small things in life you take so much for granted. Perhaps you will even come to beg for them.”

“And maybe you will learn that I will never beg—especially not from you!”

His grip went tighter, then he let her go. Cursing beneath his breath, he returned to Viento, mounted and started forward, the long leather
reata
tugging her into line behind him. Twice in the late afternoon, Sanchez rode up beside him, beseeching him to stop, to let the girl ride with one of the men, but each time he looked back and saw her, he heard the sharp clang of the bell, saw the lead ball explode in his brother's chest, heard the soft words Andreas had spoken as he died clutching Ramon's hand.

It was dark when they reached the place they meant to camp, the girl walking blindly, stumbling now and then, but always moving forward, by sheer will alone, it seemed to him. It angered him more than ever that she had decided to fight him, that she had not weakened as he had expected. Yet part of him was glad for it, glad to pit the rage he felt inside against someone besides himself.

She was trembling with exhaustion, he saw when he climbed down from his horse, swaying slightly though she fought to stand still. Her blue robe hung in dirty tatters, snagged on sharp rocks and thorny vines along the trail. Her hair had slipped loose from its binding. It tumbled in dark copper waves down her back and clung in damp curls to her slightly sunburned cheeks.

A knot of guilt twisted inside him. He had never been cruel to a woman. Never lifted a hand against one. But this was not just any woman. This one had murdered his brother. A bone-deep chill quelled the fires inside him. She would pay for what she had done. Her uncle would pay. He owed that much to his brother.

Then he noticed the blood on her feet.

Madre de Dios.
“Sanchez!” he called out, and Pedro came running. “See to the girl.” The words came out thick and strained as something squeezed painfully inside him. It mixed with the grief, stirring it up in agonizing waves, making it hard to think. “You should have said something,” he told the woman darkly. “I would have seen you had something to wear for shoes.”

She spit into the dirt at his feet. “There is nothing I want from you. Do you hear me? Nothing!”

She was everything he hated—he had discovered that the instant he had met her. She was grasping, hedonistic, spoiled, and self-centered.

Everything he once was himself.

Walking away, his head pounding viciously, he reached into the
bolsa
hanging behind his saddle and drew out a bottle of strong
aguardiente.
He pulled the cork and took a long, mind-numbing drink. He didn't take more than one. He did not dare. He knew if he did he would not stop. He would climb into the bottle, drink until he couldn't feel the pain.

Behind him Pedro led the girl to the stream, knelt and helped her bathe her bloody feet. A few minutes later, one of the men approached, carrying a soft pair of knee-high moccasins. The vaquero said something to the girl and though he couldn't hear it, Ramon was certain what it was.

Because as much as he hated to admit it, as much as he wished it weren't the truth, the same grudging respect his men had begun to feel for the woman had begun to blossom inside himself.

*   *   *

Every noise in the darkness seemed magnified a thousand times. Carly wasn't used to being out of doors. Her uncle had warned her not to go far from the house alone. The woods, he said, were dangerously overrun with wild animals: mountain lions, poisonous rattlesnakes, huge sharp-horned wild bulls, feral pigs, and worse of all, giant man-eating grizzly bears. Even now she could hear something growling in the darkness not far from camp. A second night creature howled its vicious intent just down the hill.

Carly shivered to think of it. Even if she could escape, which there seemed little hope of, she didn't know her way back home, and the animals would be prowling, just waiting to tear her in two.

And yet an even greater peril lay just a few yards across the camp.

He was stretched out on his bedroll, his black flat-brimmed hat tilted forward over his eyes. He had only just returned to the clearing, having gone off alone into the forest while the others made camp. He hadn't returned until after the men had all gone to sleep, then sat in front of the fire and stared silently into the flames. Sanchez had awakened and gone to the Spaniard's side, but he refused the meal the old vaquero had tried to coax him to eat.

As exhausted as Carly was, as frightened, as resentful of the Spaniard's brutal treatment, some small part of her felt sorry for him. She'd had a sister once, a little girl named Mary, four years younger than she was. Mary had died of a fever when Carly was nine years old. She remembered her mother weeping, remembered the terrible, hollow ache she had felt that couldn't be filled, the bitterness and sorrow of losing Mary. She could easily imagine the pain the don suffered from the loss of his brother.

Carly leaned her head against the tree and closed her eyes. She had eaten the chunk of roasted meat Sanchez had brought her and accepted the blanket he gave her even as he bound one of her ankles to the tree. Snuggling deeper into the blanket's warmth, she willed herself not to think of the don, not to think of her tired, aching muscles, scrapped shins, cut feet, or the darkening bruise on her cheek. Instead, she thought of her uncle, willing him to come, certain that he would, and finally she slid into a heavy trancelike sleep.

She awoke before dawn, to the nicker of horses and the slap of leather as the men saddled up and prepared to break camp. The young vaquero named Ruiz brought her breakfast: warmed-up tortillas, some leftover meat, and a tin cup of steaming hot coffee that tasted better than any she could ever remember drinking. She still wasn't hungry, though she forced herself to eat, and felt even more tired than she had the night before, every bone aching, every muscle sore. Her feet were blistered, scraped, and cut; her arms and legs were scratched, her lips dry and chaffed.

She heard the old vaquero pleading her case to the don, but just as before he blindly turned away.

At least she was still alive. There had been no rape, as she had feared, and except for the don, so far no one had been cruel to her. By now her uncle and his men would be hard in pursuit and she was certain he would find her.

“It is time to leave, senorita.” The words broke into her thoughts as the Spaniard strode up beside her. His features looked stark, barren. Faint purple smudges appeared beneath his cold dark eyes. He was ruthless, callous, unfeeling.

She felt a shot of loathing. “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”

A grim smile curved his lips. “We travel far into the mountains. To Llano Mirada, a place that is sometimes my home.”

“My uncle will find you wherever you go. He won't rest until he hunts you down like the animal you are.”

“Better men have tried. All of them have failed. Your uncle will be no different.”

“What do you want of me? What do you intend to do?”

His dark eyes raked her, bold, sensuous, unforgiving. “That remains to be seen, senorita.” He dropped the braided leather loop around her wrists and drew it snug, then led her to his horse and gracefully swung into the saddle. “In the meantime, we must leave.”

Anger seethed through her. And bitterness and hatred. Ignoring her ragged state of dress, her tumbled hair, and the over-sized moccasins on her feet, she flashed him a cool, cultivated smile, as haughty as she could muster. “I'm ready when you are, Senor El Dragón.”

The don's face went taut and a muscle ticked in his cheek. Carly felt a jolt of satisfaction. He had meant to humble her, to see her whine and beg. He had been certain he could break her.

But each time she looked at his tall broad-shouldered figure sitting astride his night-black horse, each time she noticed the arrogant tilt of his head, she thought of the other handsome man. The one she had dreamed about, the man who had given her the rose. Ruthlessly, she forced herself to remember the dark-skinned fantasy man whose smile had charmed her and made butterflies swirl in her stomach.

The man who had been laughing at her all the while, playing her for a fool.

The stallion tossed its head and started up the trail, and Carly set out behind it. Ignoring her aching muscles, cuts, scrapes, and bruises, she fixed her eyes on the Spaniard's broad back and forced one moccasined foot in front of the other. Sanchez followed, along with the rest of the men.

By noon the sun was a fiery ball above their heads, beating down with relentless determination. The woven leather rope chafed her wrists and the blue embroidered robe weighed her down with every step. She stumbled and would have fallen if the don had not slowed. The trail was a long steep incline, sapping her strength along with her will. Her legs felt wobbly and her mouth was dry. She wasn't sure how much longer she could go on.

As if he read her thoughts, he stopped the horse, unfastened his canteen, walked back and handed it to her. She held it to her lips, savoring each long cooling drink, but it was all she could do to keep her hands from shaking.

“Llano Mirada is just there,” he said, accepting the canteen and pointing toward the top of a steep ravine. “That is where we are going.”

She followed his line of vision but saw nothing that looked the least bit like a camp. Just oaks and pines and manzanita, and a long rocky canyon leading up to a sheer granite cliff.

“The climb is a difficult one.” His lips twisted cruelly. “If you ask me very nicely, perhaps I will give you a ride.”

The canyon walls towered above her. Beneath her nightgown, her legs shook with fatigue. How could she possibly make such a difficult climb? She was dangerously close to tears, close to the point of breaking. “Go to hell.”

He frowned at her, then glanced back at the steep, rock-strewn canyon with its seemingly non-existent path. For a moment he seemed uncertain. “Your pride will be your undoing, senorita.”

Carly bristled. “And what of yours, Don Ramon?” Desperation drove her to taunt him. She needed her anger to carry her through. “Was it your grand Spanish pride that managed to get your brother killed? Or was it merely your greed?”

Fury blazed in his dark eyes, as hot as the tip of a flame, yet at the same time so cold she felt chilled. He turned his face away, leaving only his stark, elegant profile. Then he set his spurs to the sides of his horse and started up the grade.

They walked for a while. The trail appeared out of nowhere. It was impossible to see, she realized, and behind her the men used branches and leaves to disguise the way they had come. Her tired body sagged with defeat. Her uncle would never find the trail, and even if he did, guards were posted at intervals all along the rocky canyon wall.

Carly stumbled, hot tears burning, springing to life in her eyes. Dear God, why hadn't she asked the don for help? Why hadn't she cast aside her pride and let him be the victor he was so determined to be? What did it matter? But somehow she knew that it did. Her pride was all she had left, all that was keeping her from turning into the frightened little girl she was inside. She couldn't afford to abandon it. She brushed the tears away.